We were lined up on our knees, naked, chained, and likely supposed to be in fear. The others, male and female alike, probably were. Cold stone bit into my skin, not quite chilled enough to numb, but digging into the manacles that shackled wrists to opposing ankles. The metal of our bonds contorted us into a position that one could never settle into. Smells of bile, blood, and things we were too young to know corroded our senses. All of it was intentional, purposeful. I almost admired the attention to detail.
The being floating before us barely resembled one of us anymore; my forced memories knew that, and the glimpses of the others I had been birthed with showed the same. His form was an amalgamation of Drukhari pallor skin and whatever muscle, talon, or tentacle he fancied. There were limbs attached to his back belonging to species the mon-keigh had exterminated five thousand years ago. The knowledge that had been forced into our minds said that most of the haemonculai had witnessed the birth of She Who Thirsts, and while that fact mattered little now, it seemed likely.
This one had grown us in vats. Had injected our education, the terrible fate of our species into our brains. From the moment we had minds to learn to the moment we were dumped from tanks filled with synthetic amniotic fluid to the floor we were now bound on. We were a product, a dozen made to fill ranks; some of us were to be sent to the Kabal of the Screaming Heart, and the rest were to be flesh-twisted into mindless slave monstrosities, Wracks. He stops in front of me, sickly green eyes regarding me with a dispassionate malice that those around me shrink from and avoid. I meet my own reflection for the first time in the faceted angles of the insect-like implants he's replaced his former eyes with.
"You don't smell of fear half-born. I think you'll be first for the table." His voice sounds like a whisper of dead air through a tomb. I don't shrink from his threat.
"That would be a mistake. If you do that, I won't be able to learn what you are going to teach me." A sound, cold and rasping, comes from his throat, grating down our tapered ears. The others shy away from me. It doesn't matter; I know that on instinct, on a genetic level. Something burns in me, clawing and rasping at the dark corners of my mind. If I can't take this first step, this first little rebellion, then it won't matter. It was better to die for this monster's amusement now than live without taking a step toward what I craved to do, no, must do. A sudden realization strikes me; the haemonculai is laughing.
"You amuse me half-born, continue to do so, and I will continue to let you live. If you can provide enough value, I will consider teaching you." I tilt my head in acknowledgment as his attendants release the manacles from me, then half of the others, chosen at random or by some alien calculation in the ancient creature's mind. Their hands are thin, with skin as translucent as a corpse; they whisper how I should be grateful to their master.
They are what I will never be. Servants.
The arena of the Cult of the Impaled is a grand building in Port Kaigara, the largest and most opulent arena in this sub-realm. Its particular feature makes it ideal for the next step: You keep what you kill. Defeat your foe in a way that makes the audience roar, and you are allowed a trophy.
The Master of the haemonculai coven that birthed me is interested in two things: beings given over to the Ruinous Powers and Craftworld Aeldari. Two of the former are scheduled to fight tonight. Brothers not only in betraying their Corpse God, but in swearing to Khorne all the blood they spill and violence they wreak. They slew two Wyches last night with Chaos-tainted chainswords and serrated combat knives. I watched as they did, and memorized their timing.
"I've not seen you before, whelp; what name should I record as dying?" The Wych asks, her plump lips pulled back in a sneer. She's a work of art to the eyes; in one way or another all Wyches are. She wears sashes of void black and crimson red; I idly wonder how many blades are hidden in them.
"Naethis. I've not a family name yet." I answer. Her sneer deepens. A Trueborn then, if she held a low opinion of me because I was male, it was lowered still to find out I was vat-grown. Her eyes glitter with casual malice.
"You've a pretty enough face half-born, and I've need of a new pet; if you're so eager to die, I can offer a more pleasant way." She offers, tilting her head back and letting her tongue trace a sharpened canine. I smile back. Being a Kabalite soldier has taught me how to cripple then kill, how to become part of the shadows and strike when the prey is least wary. How to flatter those who believe they have power.
"Any half-born should be honored to experience a final caress from you Lady Wych. However, I bring a request that might bring more satisfaction." I bow, my loose-worn white hair spilling over one side of my face as I had observed her other playmates wearing theirs. I've studied her like I study all I must deal with. She tilts her face, now curious.
"And what might that be half-born?" I grin as I straighten.
"A good show, of course."
"Give me a spear, and I will give you a show, gracious and beautiful Lady." I swear, bowing again.
"You amuse me, Naethis half-born. Your death will be a pleasant distraction, and should you win, I will ensure you are given your due reward!" She laughs and licks her artful lips, her scarlet hair cascading down her porcelain flesh. I get my spear, I get my chance. There is risk of course, every breath in Cormorragh is a risk, but I can no more resist this opportunity than I could resist standing up to the haemonculai.
The arena stretches around us; we're a fringe show, a preliminary event, in concurrence with two others. Throngs of Drukhari bask in the spilling of blood and screams of agony that the rotating platforms display to the crowd. I control my breath as I drop onto the rough white stone of our micro-arena. The wyches always put the brothers of Khorne on this platform, blood was always spilled, and showed more garishly on the pale floor. It was an effect I appreciated. I grip the alloy haft of the barbed spear the wych gave me, and spin it in a dramatic flourish before slamming it to the ground. I don't detect a weakness in the materials, no wobble in the head or awkward weight, I wasn't sabotaged for betting odds or amusement at least.
Despite their status as favored agents of slaughter, the wyches are Drukhari, and they favor me. The two drop after me, their mon-keigh eyes will take longer to adapt, a split second, but long enough. They are broad with thickly cabled muscle under skin darkened with the Blood God's taint, partially covered by piecemeal rust colored ceramite armor taken from those they overwhelmed. One is taller and wider of shoulder, slightly foot slow, the other wears his black hair long in tangled blood-soaked braids, twined with bone, he is lithe and surprisingly fast. I sprint to my left, flick the spear out like a striking serpent at the faster of the two. The mon-keigh bats it aside with his chainsword, trying to turn the edge to my spear, catch it in the teeth of his weapon. The other sprints out to my left, trying to force me to give up position. I step in with a long, probing stab, then skip back and pivot away to prevent them from flanking me.
They're disciplined in a way, not wasting the reserves of their chainswords by activating them all the time, and their howls of rage and bloodlust mask a savage cunning. The two wyches they eviscerated last night underestimated their speed. I will not, keeping them at bay with twisting stabs and tight slashes with the elegantly cruel head of the weapon. The crowd around us begins to notice that a lone male Drukhari is holding back two of the Blood God's favored and more shift their attention to us as I drag the edge of the spear across the big one's face, exposing teeth and gushing blood. He is marginally more ugly now, I suppose.
Feinting a high stab at the fast one's face makes him lean back and bring his weapons up to defend. I pivot out of the way of the bigger mon-keigh's windmilling, furious charge and stomp kick the haft of my spear into the back of the smaller one's right knee. Fury and resistance to pain can't override basic biology, and joints are meant to bend. He goes down in an ungainly flail of limbs, screaming in rage. I pivot and spin my spear in a defensive flourish that deflects the heavy chainsword aside and knocks his knife wide. I dance back, breath coming hard, these beasts can absorb more punishment, fight longer than I can, but this is the arena, a quick kill doesn't appease the crowd. The big one activates his chainsword, and I note that the teeth are traveling down the length of the blade. I flicker out another stab, just a half beat slower than the others, and he slams his roaring weapon into mine. The teeth of the chainsword slam my spear down, just as I had intended.
The extra momentum lets me redirect the spear away from the brute and into the shoulder of the smaller Khornite as he stands. The barbed head bites deep, and I shoulder-roll back and away from the massive mon-keigh, twisting the spear blade, and gouging my victim's muscles apart like a drill. The larger one is bellowing, faster and more crazed than before. But he holds his weapons high, defending his already gushing face and exposed throat. His left knee cop is missing, and with inches to spare, I brace the spear on the stone floor and impale the brute's leg, dropping into a low crouch and losing strands of hair to the roaring chainsword. I kick his wounded leg as I rise and he flounders to the ground, still trying to swing his chain weapon at me.
I am forced to static block the faster mon-keigh, and the force of the blow sends me sprawling back. I hit the ground in the splash of his blood, twisting to keep my eyes on him, but losing my spear for a moment. This was not to plan.
He's already charging, bloody froth at the corners of his mouth, I see his combat knife on the ground near my hand. Drukhari fast I snatch it up, roll to my feet, and throw the heavy knife. The Khornite jerks aside, the knife misses, but it costs him momentum. It gives me enough time to regain my spear and bury it in his sword hand. All the Blood God strength in the galaxy can't keep his weapon in the mangled mess of torn flesh and ligaments that was his hand. He roars in impotent fury. I tire of the noise and two-hand swing the haft of my spear like an Arakya club into his jaw.
He drops, coughing up teeth, his brother taking up the howl. But there's only him now, lame and bleeding, his leg dragging weakly, challenging me in a clash of strength. Why he thinks I will oblige is a mystery. After all, I reflect as I puncture both his arms with surface level stabs, this is the arena. It's not enough to kill them. I need to dismantle them.
They are resistant to physical pain but not immune, but the agony of impotent rage they feel as I sever tendons and muscle groups, they feel that keenly, and so does the audience. As the big mon-keigh slumps to the ground, garbling out blood-flecked curses through broken teeth, a shadow passes over us. A sleek Bladewing fighter slides down towards the blood-stained stone of the arena. Standing on the tip of the craft, balanced with poise and grace even other Drukhari would find unnatural is the succubus who rules this arena, resplendent in her crimson armor, helmet removed so all could see her ebony hair trailing in the wind, the Bloody Baroness descends with a smile.
I drop to a knee, letting the spear hit the rust-red stained stone floor. I'm too drained physically, and she is too deadly anyway for it to make much difference.
"Quite the show half-born, your first outing in the arena, and you treat us so well! Alo'myss showed good judgment in letting you entertain us." She laughs as the arena roars in approval, then shifts their attention to the next bloody spectacle. The Baroness does not, she lightly jumps and lands on the balls of her feet, canting her head and regarding me. "You know the rules here Naethis of the Screaming Heart, you keep what you kill, yet the mon-keigh still breathe, why?"
It takes me a moment to get my breathing back under control. "I ask your favor Baroness, Master Maezkyth of the Coven of the Corporeal Knife has an interest in mortals tainted by the Ruinous Powers. I would gift one of these to him, while the other I freely give back to you."
She purrs out a soft laugh. "Trying to gain favor with both the Coven and my Cult for your Kabal half-born?"
I look up and shrug, trying to keep air in my lungs long enough to speak. "My success is tied to my Kabal for now, and the favor of a haemonculai or a Succubus of your renown is always precious, Lady Baroness."
She laughs outright. "Such a bold little thing you are. Very well, I accept. Save that I would have you deliver both mon-keigh to the Coven. I too, have use for the favor of a Master haemonculai."
I bow my head in agreement. Then, meet her gaze again. "Shall I ask Master Maezkyth to reserve a viewing spot for you during their initial vivisection?"
The Baroness purses her lips in a sultry coo of delight. "For a half-born neophyte, you do know how to charm a lady!"
Gravity and wind pull on us with tempest force as we slice through the blackness of Hive City Cinderhall's main ventilation shaft. There are four Raiders, two fully crewed with twenty other Drukhari strapped to the railing, pressed low to the hull to minimize the drag as we rise out of the depths of the underhive where our forgotten webway gate lay. The other two are empty for now, but their slave racks and stasis masks will not remain that way long. Two sleek Venoms lead us, crewed by five Incubi warriors and our Dracon, Iyunzash Baerenzeyn.
Like our current Archon, Taila Savath, he is brash and vicious, quick to seize opportunity. Unlike her, his lack of impulse control is not backed with Wych Cult skill and adaptability. He was Trueborn to wealth and power, and, though skilled as a killer, his Incubi bodyguards, bought with his family's wealth, take pride in keeping him alive through his poor tactical judgment.
I do not like him, but he is easy to manipulate. Too easy. A leader should have better awareness.
The Arakya have infested this world, the greenskin orks swarm and surge, a tidal wave of fungal violence given voice and savage form. Arrayed against what was, at one point, the most feared and disciplined force the galaxy had known since the Necrons. The mon-keigh have fallen to brute tribalism and superstitious fanaticism, a fall so stark and deep it almost eclipses our own.
Almost.
Once word passed to us that this world was under attack by the orks, Dracon Iyunzash began to gather those of us under his command, gathering allies and the five Incubi warriors his family retains to plunder the underhive weaklings for our slave pens. I researched our target, found that the leading family of this world held trade licenses, owned ships, and those voidcraft were part of Imperium convoys. I volunteered my team for reconnaissance, the four remaining half-born from my birth and five others who now look to me. They noticed members of my kill team don't die nearly as often as those of others.
We slid through this city five of their day cycles ago like a mono-blade between ribs. Unseen, unheard, shadows in the darkness of this hive. We disabled their primitive com nodes and alarm systems, set remote detonation haywire grenades at power couplings. The drones of the underhive were easy prey, we made them easier.
It wasn't difficult to convince Xarion to find a shadow and observe the battle lines. The only thing Incubi enjoy more than observing death is creating it. The mon-keigh array themselves in organized lines of overlapping fire and armor, no doubt supported by artillery from the Hive itself. It would matter little; the orks were a tidal wave of carnage set to crash over the defenders. They are currently held back by a bloody dispute between two of the major sub-leaders under the massive creature that ruled them through strength of will and violence. The orks are addicts for a good fight.
"It is unfortunate the Arakya are so resistant to pain. In their numbers, they would sustain us for generations." Xarion's words resonate inside me. Thoughts fall into place like shards of stained glass into a portrait. The mon-keigh are more useful. This world is easy prey as they don't know of our webway gate. If no one else can manage the herd, then I will. I relay instructions to my team and the Incubi agree with it. It's a minor tangent and promises to be... entertaining. Possibly useful.
Back in the Hive, my team continues. Tracing the ventilation shafts, and sending engineered spying organisms grown in our tanks to scout the purification shafts that feed the spires clean air. Their alarms are old and decrepit, the spire dwellers have grown complacent in their wealth and position. I see that they retain an entire company of heavy infantry ogryn to defend them even as thousands die for their illusion of safety. The vents will let us bypass all but one platoon of the brutes.
An acceptable risk.
Our preparations activated seconds before the rest of the Kabal's forces poured through. No alarms sound, pleas for aid, and screams of warning go nowhere. Dracon Iyunzash howls and crows in exultation as his forces harvest the screaming, fleeing mon-keigh. Exulting as though he laid the seeds of this harvest in the sullen squalor and ramshackle ruins himself, as if this is a battle he is dominating. A thousand Drukhari will make ten times that number vanish and the mon-keigh won't know how. For the Dracon that was enough. Not for me.
"A wise plan Dracon, the mon-keigh in the spires might live longer than these lowborns, and feel pain more keenly, but acting safely is prudent." I sent to him privately. In moments he had tasked two kill teams, mine among them, to assist him and his Incubi as they raided the rulers of this world.
"The prey must know that all are in danger before us!" He snarls back to us all as we lacerate the wind towards the spires. I see Xarion's helmet turn, almost imperceptibly towards me, feel the gazes of my team. Even as we speed toward the goal I had machinated us to, I feel contempt for my fool of a Dracon. He should be more aware, harder to manipulate.
I will be.
Xarion stops at the correct grate, we identified it the previous night, two of his Incubi leap to the vent, magnetic pads clinging them to the metal structure. They slice the grate open with plasma torches, and drop them down the vast gulf of the shaft. Xarion and his Incubi pounce through the opening and on two of the massive, porcine Ogryn before the brutes realize there was a sound behind them. The Incubi leader's demi-klaives are brutal weapons, and shimmer with molecular disruption fields. The modified mon-keigh's heads are separated and flicked over his shoulder into the abyss of the ventilation shaft as the floor grows red with ogryn blood. The other two catch then lower their headless corpses to the ground, their massive bolters deathlocked in convulsing hands.
Even our slim vehicles won't fit in the arching, white marble hallways here, but it is a small gap, and Drukhari physicality is up to the task. We all breach and slide into the lines of our teams, mine on the right, the others on the left. Dracon Iyunzash takes the center, arrogantly pulling venom blade and blast and sprinting forward as the five Incubi form a wedge around him.
Aesyyr, a female survivor from my litter, for that is what our haemonculai master called us, is on point, is the only one from my team with a full length shard rifle, and it is fitted with an optic set as well. She isn't as adaptive as me, not as analytical, but she is a superlative shot and makes all the sound of a shadow falling. She sites two mon-keigh cameras, destroys them before they track back to us. We reach a four-way intersection, and all halt, even Xarion and his warriors. We hear the heavy tread of ogryn boots and the hum of a power weapon field. I motion for my grenadier.
"Two haywires, aim high." I subvocalize to him. He steps out and slides past the still forms of the Incubi and Dracon Iyunzash.
"Let me and my Incubi take them, a Dracon should always claim first blood!" Iyunzash hisses to me. My grenadier flicks his helmet to me but I nod, barely.
"Of course. Dracon." I respond. Noted for later use.
My warrior bounces both grenades off the one wall and into the unseen area beyond, and the haywires pulse radiation out, killing the lights, plunging the ivory halls into darkness, and stilling any communications the brutish creatures might have. They bellow in surprise as the Incubi flow forward with serpentine speed and grace. I hold my team in place as the other team lead glances at me in question. I hear them meet battle and two of the massive ogryn die before they even see Xarion among them. Then the doors of the hallway facing us explode open and I hear others roar from the hall to our right.
"Kaemaque," I command the other kill team lead. "The group in front. Aesyyr on the right, take a knee."
We surge into motion, splinters of razor-edged toxin crystals shimmering in the gloom to shatter against metal. At the head of the stampede of the mon-keigh mutants, two carry shields as wide as they are and tall as any Drukhari. My shooter obeys, shardfire low and slicing thin armor at the kneecap. The lead ogryn's leg goes slack, it looks at the limp limb in confusion before being bowled into by his fellows, half the charge stalling. As the other team shoots past to spread out at the far corner of the intersection, I swing my team behind them, lines of roaring fire streak overhead as the ogryn spray at us with fist-sized bolter pistol rounds.
I hear the sounds of battle behind my team and see that six of the armored and shield bearing ogryn line the steps to the Govenor's apartments. One topples, Xarion's demi-klaive power blades severing his arms at the elbow and throat to the spine. Four raise chain axes, the fifth some kind of mon-keigh power hammer.
Back to my task, I flick a shredder net in front of the remaining shield bearer and watch as the reactive monofilament entangles his legs and contracts, slicing through thick muscle and into cartilage and bone. The grenadiers fire plasma rounds high, air bursting and sending the brutish ogryn down, light blinding them as their eyes adapt to the shadows. A whisper of splinter fire silences the streaking, blind bolter fire.
Across the hallway I see that my fellow team leader has felled the breach team ogryn, and one of them followed our plan and blinded them with a plasma grenade. But three of the other team lay bleeding, Drukhari blood splattering the stone.
Disgraceful. Kaemaque is better than our Dracon, but he still has much to learn.
A cracking explosion and a clatter of light armor on marble steps draws my gaze to Xarion's warriors and our "leader". One incubi lays in two parts, the ragged edges of a chain axe wound bisecting him at the waist, three other are scattered and trying to rise, as is Iyunzash. Scorches mark where the power weapon overcharged and exploded, knocking the incubi to the ground. Only Xarion himself standing, flickering between two of the ogryn, one arm hanging limply as he evades their ponderous but brutally powerful chain axes. He is better, but they are implacable.
I'm in motion before my mind catches up with what I'm doing, instinct recognizing the opportunity before the rest of me does. Sprinting past the fallen incubi I stitch a burst of shardfire into the left side ogryn's massive arm and snatch up Xarion's fallen demi-klaive. The creature bellows and tries to turn his shield towards me but the shard toxins are already setting nerves on fire and causing blood vessels to rupture as his muscles go dead. The demi-klaive is unfamiliar in my hand, it resembles a butcher's cleaver more than a weapon, but it needs no special skill to punch the blade into the monstrous beast's knee. I brace its heavy shield with my back, hearing the last scream in rage, and punch the mono-edge spike bayonet from my shardcarbine into its chin.
I fire to make sure, ogryn brains are a small target.
Distracted by his fellow dying, the survivor storms towards my back, and I allow myself a smile as Xarion neatly takes him apart at every joint. The wrath of an Incubi is an experience I will take pains to never be on the receiving end of.
"You should have let him die before saving me!" Iyunzash spits blood out, rising, clenching his sword and pistol too tightly to be of easy use, trembling in wrath, and I have never been more disgusted at another Drukhari.
"Replacing an Incubi is expensive. Dracon. It would not do to cut into the profits of this venture more than necessary. Is this correct?" I carefully avoid referencing myself, neither lying nor telling the full truth. I allow him a moment to muse, to put my actions as his own, make it seem as though saving his personal guard was his idea and not my action. Arrogance is a baneful trait, but the trueborn seem to come filled with it.
"Hm, yes, I will need to find another to replace the failure. You anticipated my desires well, Naethis." I am once again glad for the full-face helms we wear, I doubt even I could have kept my disdain for the fool off my face. Xarion looks at me. The barest tilt of his head as his armor resets his arm and doses him with just enough painkillers to keep him functional. It is acknowledgment enough that this risk was worth it. I offer his weapon back, and the Incubus accepts it.
Kaemaque's team is tasked to stow the fallen Drukhari on the Raider, as well as any of the ogryn who have proved too stubborn to die. I'll pay for their resurrection at the Coven I currently have favor with. I can purchase this service at the reduced price of some of the slaves we take, as well as more... esoteric requests. That leaves my team and Xarion's Incubi to breach the inner chambers.
Double arched doors adorned with their blocky script, declaring everlasting glory to their corpse god and the family behind the armored and sealed door. I see an ogryn's shield and inspiration strikes. Only fools do not take what the enemy provides.
"Dracon Iyunzash. You shouldn't trouble yourself with the technicalities of this, allow me to pick one slave from the herd beyond and I will deal with the issue." He nods, sheathing his venom blade and blast pistol.
"You have proven competent half-born. If I receive no more harm, then you and your team may have their pick of ten slaves from this as well." His voice drips with false beneficence, and I sketch a bow. Switching to my team's link, one that included Xarion.
I explain my plan. The Incubi's posture changes; he sinks back into the crouch of a predator on the hunt.
"A fitting kill, we will do this." His voice is silken thunder, rich with hunger for the slaughter. I share a craving no less intense, but structured, focused. What I need is not a simple fix of mon-keigh agony to replenish my soul. Not solely. I need something else far more complex.
Two of my team scrape blades along the left side of the door while acid is poured into the hinge of the right side. We layer a breaching charge of organic explosive on the weakened door and four of the Incubi press one of the ogryn shields against it. I detonate the charge, hurling the reinforced door violently into the room beyond.
The Incubi blast inside with the ogryn shield held in front of them. A half-second later, five hissing cracks of mon-keigh las weapon begin. A simple distraction, sound from one place, attacking from another; a momentary shift, but by then the Incubi are almost halfway through the cavernous entry chamber. I peel left, Aseyrr right, and two more of my team follow us.
The ambushers are a split second late, confused at seeing their own technology coming at them, more confused to see the emerald and ebony marking of Drukhari armor appearing. Their confusion lasts as long as it takes for shards of crystalized toxins to tear through their armor and send the males screaming and frothing blood to the meticulous white tiles. Xarion erupts past me, demi-klaives ready as a lone mon-keigh in an ostentatious long coat and ridiculous hat draws his chainsword and fires a bolt round that carves a furrow in the Incubi's helm.
This would be the planet's leading 'commissar', some kind of ruling authority responsible for killing those who display cowardice. Xarion destroys the mon-keigh's bolt pistol with one sword, sheathes his second blade, and duels the commissar one handed. For a moment, all is roar of chain engine, the ring of metal on metal, and the twenty or so cowering mon-keigh behind the display are given a fraction of hope that their remaining defender will hold the line.
Xarion grows bored with the game, turns his hooked demi-klaive and smashes the commissar's hand, then snaps the toe of his powered armored foot into the mon-keigh's liver. The mon-keigh crumples, gagging in pain.
My team surges forward, painlashes flicking out and turning the nobility from quaking to screaming. Iyunzash laughes, drinking of their pain deeply, distracted and just how I need him. The sky is lightening and the battle between the orks and mon-keigh is about to begin.
"Dracon, we have prepared additional entertainment for you." I send with an expansive gesture towards the window. On cue, the plasma charges we planted in the Ork's artillery, ammunition stores, even their fuel tanks all detonate. The secondary explosions and the waves of flame and force set off are above my expectations. Iyunzash hisses in pleasure as a wave of psychic agony washes over all of us.
While he bathes in the death and devastation, I find my target. The second eldest son of the ranking mon-keigh, cowering in a corner, tears streaming down his pale, chubby face. I snatch his long, sallow blonde hair and slam him to the gleaming marble, twist his arm, locking his joints out.
"Inbound shipping schedule and manifest, where is it?" I say in his primitive, harsh speech. His eyes widened in shock that I was not using a translator, and my throat ached from the effort of forcing the guttural syllables through it. Of course I learned his obtuse language. Learning how a being speaks is an insight into their mind, and I always understand how my prey thinks.
I flick out a slim, curved blade from a fingertip and slice the skin inside his pinkie finger off to expose muscle. His burbling scream informs me that I have his attention. I repeat my question.
"There! That shelf! The slate in mauve!" I switch to internal comms and ask Xarion to join me while I drag the mewling weakling with me to the direction indicated. Behind us his family is bound and restrained, my team identifies the prizes most likely to be useful or at least to last longest, and claims them for themselves. I find the primitive data storage slate and recall what my study of the devices had to say about encryption.
I isolate the mon-keigh's index finger and press it to the identity scanner. From the floor, the pathetic creature stares at me with shock in his watery eyes. The screen opens, and I absently begin securing him while studying the blocky, ungainly text. The incubus glides to me, his poise suggests curiosity.
"What has your attention?" He asks over private comms. I flip through dates and find what I am looking for, and a thrill surges through me. I see a note, a listing. My pulse roars in my ears for a moment before I bury it, push it down into the darkness where my need writhes like an enraged, ravenous serpent. I show Xarion and tell him what the symbols mean.
Even through layers of incubus power armor I see his killer's hunger rise in his stance, the set of his shoulders.
"Dracon Iyunzash. I have found something." I transmit to the entire team. "The mon-keigh have a shipment that is coming back from a trade mission with their allies, the Votan. I know what date they should be here. It will be lightly escorted."
The arrogant Drukhari's gaze flicks to me.
"What of the cargo? Is it a prize worth the risk?" Xarion, proving that he is now my ally in this endeavor. I already told him what was aboard this vessel.
"Votan technology is far more advanced than normal mon-keigh trash. And they have been mining large quantities of noctilith. As I am certain you are aware-" I begin. Iyunzash fills in the blanks, predictable, again.
"The Great Archon Asdrubael Vect has been paying a great price for noctilith! Very well, I will secure us a cruiser. Naethis, plan for the attack while I pursue more noble ventures!" I tilt my head in acceptance. I wouldn't follow any cobbled together list of absurdities that fool called a plan regardless of whether or not he commanded me to do his task for him.
I turn to Xarion, switch back to our private conversation. "If we offer the passengers as prisoners, will a wych cult aid us?"
"Likely so. Whatever one commands them, the prizes, my price is that he is mine to kill." The incubus responds.
"Of course, we will need one capable of subverting their ship system, I will develop a method for capturing them. It will be no easy thing, but possible." I answer, and he laughs again, deep and hungry. For he knows what the ship brings, not only does it bring reinforcements for this world, it brings a platoon of their Corpse Emperor's Dogs, the Gene-Forged. Their Astartes.
It was the detail that I told Xarion, which when paired with the bitter wine of his employer's arrogance and disregard, has pushed the incubus to side with me. So my hunger, my true hunger, will be fed. For Dracon Iyunzash always wants to draw first blood. And he should greet these Astartes, these Novamarines first.
A half-born needs to perform some great feats in order to become a Dracon. Even more to rise to Archon. Having my own ship will greatly aid that endeavor. After this raid Dracon Iyunzash will have enough to purchase at least a cruiser. A pity he will not be keeping it long.
I will need to plan carefully, precisely, test the loyalties of the other trueborn, insure the loyalty of the other kill-teams. Step by step, move by move, ally by ally, the game goes on. We have played by the same rules, the same routines and patterns and become as predictable as those Craftworlders and their pathetic 'Paths'! Under Vect we are born true or half to play at his behest and dance on his strings. He plays the Archons against each other, splitting us when we could shake the galaxy if we stood united. He allows Chaos to stalk the streets of Cormorragh and hunts the Ynari because they will not bend knee to him. He will let our prey wither and fall to the Ruinous Powers or the Devourer, all to serve his whims.
I refuse. I will not serve.
I was half-born to a synthetic womb, and my soul promised to feed a goddess of thirst and excess. I was fated to an existence of fear and torture where pain was my only life. I was bound in slavery to one mistress or another master before I had drawn breath.
I reject this. In the ancient mists of humanity's past, the mon-keigh envisioned a god so powerful that he alone created this vast galaxy of horror and wonder. They imagined this god had a son who looked upon his works and uttered two words: "Non serviam." And in this, their simplicity is poetry.
For I refuse to be bound by dark muse, fated runes, or thirsting god. I spit in the eyes of the galaxy's uncaring gaze and shatter the shackles of fate. I will cast my dice along a path I alone create among the void of icy stars. I will howl in defiance at that foretold and instead swear: I will not serve!
